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Perched high up in the West Stand, next to my daughter
I felt kinda like a King
On to the patched up green baize of his domain,
From my pricey padded seat,
Warmed by dated outdoor heaters (strange).
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As a Millionaires jaded plaything
Struggled to: make or take a pass,
Stay on his lack lustre feet, score,
Or appear to be remotely interested.
In the game, or what the angry punters
Were continually bawling at him.
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Our likewise loathed interim manager
Warmed up his chosen subs
For about seventy minutes (one was used)
Then benched them again, we sat dumfounded,
As “You don’t know what you’re doing”
Rang out on the bracing West London air.
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Poignantly reminded of wet Wednesday nights*
On the road, somewhere long ago in my past
I looked to my right as hordes
Of bouncing Czechs (Sparta Praha fans)
Danced, waved, sang and cheered on their idols
Through ninety minutes plus (without sitting down).
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They totally shamed and out sang us, the home team
A wonderful 91st minute goal,
Won us a game we never quite deserved in truth
When the whistle blew shortly after
Our team shook hands with the opposition,
Match officials, then crept coyly away smiling.
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Meanwhile The Sparta Praha team, and it’s staff
Arms around each other’s shoulders
Walked over to the travelling faithful,
To receive a united five minute verbal accolade,
Then applauded those stood freezing on the terraces (seating)
As I looked on enviously, I felt a lump in the back of my throat.